Nights Like This
by Uncle Charlie
Summary: Alexander Waverly really hated nights like this.


He hated nights like this. The rain was pounding down and a driving wind took stately and might trees and forced them down on bended knee. Night like this made him feel weak and made him remember.

"Lieutenant?"

"Here, sir!" He looked up from the boot he was polishing. It was a Sisyphus task here. With all the muck underfoot, their boots never stayed shiny. Still, the captain liked a polished boot. Besides it gave him something else to concentrate upon besides that worm.

Emily had been his girl and he'd worshipped her. Together, they'd been a threesome of no one could be. Of course, he should have known; two's company and three is… wrong. He'd come back from the trenches to discover a note on his pillow.

He'd picked it up, savoring her perfume, taking care not to flaunt it in front of the others. They didn't have a sweetheart back home and by the time he'd finished the letter, neither did he. Emory had stolen her away from - Emory, who hid beneath his bed to avoid performing his duty to his country. No, correction, according to the letter, he'd never had her. While he courted her, she dallied with Emory, taking pleasures and liberties he'd never presume to demand of anyone other than his wife. Now she was going to marry Emory instead, as he'd come into a large sum of money and a title and would provide her with more security that a mere lieutenant ever would.

_Fine_ he thought at the time. _If she wants to live married to a coward, a two-timer, and a louse, fine!_

"Lieutenant, the Captain would like to see you in his office for a special mission."

He nodded, pulled on his boots, the unshined pair, and pulled on his overcoat over his uniform. It was bitterly cold tonight and the rain was coming down so hard it was deflecting off the mucky ground and shooting straight up. He pulled his cap low to his head and made a run for it.

He ran from the temporary barracks to his captain's office as quickly as he could. He didn't even bother to doff his jacket once he'd gotten inside. The secretary watched him with interest and nodded.

"Go right in. He's expecting you."

The captain was behind his desk, looking wane and tired. Hell, they all were like that, more corpses than soldiers any more. There was hardly enough food to keep them upright, never enough drink to do anything more than take the edge off and the enemy never, ever stopped. They were relentless in their drive for dominance.

"Ah, Lieutenant, I'd hoped you be along promptly." The Captain's voice held a calm resolve to it. "I have a special mission and I need three men I can count on to the very last. We are on the move."

The next thing he knew he was crouched behind a sad excuse of a tree, doing his best to pick off snipers while the rest of the battalion moved across the bridge. To his left, Natters was bobbed up and down like a buoy on a restless sea. To his right, Flanders kept to the ground, using the mud and the filthy to conceal him.

A gunshot whined by his ear and he took bead on the shooter, catching him just as he came back up to shoot off another round. He was earning his title of company sharpshooter that night.

He saw a flash of light, two on, then three, then two more. The company was across. That had been the easy part. Now it was their turn and with no one to watch their backs, the odds weren't very much in their favor and he knew what he needed to do. In an instant, he made a decision.

"Natters, you're next." The man had a wife and two small children at home. He deserved a chance to live.

"What? Lieutenant, are you crazy? I'm not leaving you here."

"Damn right you aren't. I will be right behind you. Go!"

There was a momentary hesitation and then Natters was going, keeping low to the ground. He and Flanders kept up a steady cross fire until it was apparent Natters was safely across the bridge.

"You're next, Flanders." The man, no, boy, really, had aged parents at home. He was the apple of their eye and he deserved a chance.

"I don't think so, Lieutenant." A bullet splintered the wood close to his face and he spun to fire off a round. There was a third shot from the far side of the bridge and the sniper crumpled from view.

"Natters is across. It's your turn."

"Lieutenant… respectfully, sir."

"It's an order, Flanders. Get across so you can cover me."

The man saluted gravely and slipped from view.

Time took on a surreal edge now. His world was narrowed to just a few hundred yards around him. The wind had doubled its efforts and the bridge, not all that secure to begin with, flopped and bucked like a landed fish.

Now, finally it was his turn and he moved carefully, pausing every few feet to assess his next goal. He reached the foot of the bridge and the sway made his stomach roil as much as the distance river below did within its banks. He couldn't see it, but he could hear it roaring and heaving like some great monster. To attempt a crossing without holding onto the rope guidelines would be suicide, but so would holster his weapon. He dropped to his stomach and began to crawl, clutching the raw wooden planks for dear life. His hands would be riddled with splinters by the time he got to the other side, but he didn't care.

Above his head, the battle continued, bullets whizzing this way and that. He came to an obstacle, a big lump of a man. It must be Moose. He didn't care that the man was dead. He was a bully and almost as big a coward as Emory. It seemed an appropriate end to an unlikable comrade.

The problem was that to get over the body he needed to break his cover and stand.

He closed his eyes, ripped off a little prayer and stood. They say you never heard the bullet that hits you and it was certainly true for him. One minute he was climbing over a lifeless hulk of a man and the next he was clutching his side while his life force gushed out of him.

A huge gust of wind slammed him and for a moment, he teetered against the rope handrails, then it was over and he was plunging down into a dark abyss.

His last thoughts were to wonder if Emily would even care that he was dead and to wonder what good would ever come from the pair.

Waking, he was startled to see the face of an angel looking down at him. Not an angel, a nurse he realized. He was in a hospital and she had kind brown doe eyes and a gentle smile. She wiped his face with delicate fine boned hands and he wished he had to strength to snatch one up and kiss it.

_Given a chance, I'd never get tired of looking at that face,_ he thought as he drifted back into his chemically enhanced sleep.

"Alexander?" Familiar hands caressed his shoulders and he brought one of them to his lips to kiss it gently.

"Yes, my dear?"

"Are you all right?" She rested her cheek on his head and slipped her arms around his neck. "I was afraid seeing Emory today might have brought back some bad memories."

"Actually, they are good ones. Had I not felt the strength of his betrayal so keenly, I never would have agreed to the Captain's suicide mission. If I hadn't insisted upon being the last one over the bridge, I never would have been wounded and I never would have met you."

"Out of everything, some good must come?"

"Indeed." He pulled free from her embrace an d turn to look at her, not seeing his wife of forty years, but a pretty young nurse with a fast smile and a tender heart. "Are you ready for bed?" There was a promise of something more in his voice and she smiled.

"With you? Always."

Outside the wind howled and the rain pelted down, but inside, Alexander Waverly was warm and safe and very, very thankful.


End file.
